Imagination and Electricity
by Mister Unreliable Narrator
Summary: Crowley is about to be tortured for killing Ligur. Alastair is Hell's most talented in Torture but when he is too busy Dean has to take his place. Oh God. Humans have imagination. And electricity. Two angels have to pull those morons out of Hell, ASAP!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Supernatural belongs to Erik Kripke.

EDIT: New version 5/3/09 Thanks to the beta reader Craic agus Ceol for helping me improve the first chapter.

* * *

Yellow eyes obscured by dark sunglasses opened slowly, taking in their surroundings.

Although he rarely blinked, this time he did to see if he really was seeing what he was seeing.

He was.

"Oh Hell no!"

"Hell yes!" replied a sarcastic voice. "Congrats, Crawly. You're in Hell. Again."

Crowley blinked again, but they were still there. Before him stood two greater demons who seemed quite pleased to see him again, but in a pissed off way like you would a stray pet that had wandered away from home, but before it did had crapped all over your favorite pair of jeans.

"You…?" He turned his attention to the demon that had spoken.

"S' Lord Alastair," said the other demon, "he dunt remember you but he will soon enough."

Crowley blinked a third time but they were still there.

'Alastair?' He thought. Despite the heat of Hell a chill had settled over him. Not the Alastair right? A few select phrases surfaced in his mind. 'Picasso with a knife? He Who Makes the Spanish Inquisition Seem Preferable? Oh shit. The Spanish Inquisition…'

Finally finding his senses, Crowley began to struggle against the meat hooks that bound him to a Devil's Trap with no avail. Deciding that he was just wasting his strength he sighed and his arms went limply to his sides.

"Ngk…" More bad memories began to resurface. Alastair, after all, was the most famous and skilled when it came to hazing the newly fallen angels who had to join the clique of demons. Crowley really wished he hadn't hung out with the wrong people then.

Alastair smiled in amusement at the lesser demon's antics. "I can't torture him, Hastur."

"What!" The way Hastur's eyes bugged out of his head absolutely comical and Crowley would have at least sniggered if he were not all too aware of the danger he was in.

Was this mercy? No way in Hell.

"Why in Heaven would you not?" Hastur questioned. "I wanted to seek out the best Torturer in Hell. There can be no less for this bastard!" Hastur snarled, remembering Ligur's fate at the hands of a bucket of holy water. Oldest trick in the damned book. Not that he wanted to admit he missed Ligur, but the fact that Crowley had managed to trap him was humiliation enough. The maggot was going to pay.

"It's not like I don't want to but…" Alastair chuckled, "somehow it has entered Lilith's head that I'm her bitch even though quite obviously she's Lucifer's."

"Hail the First Fallen!" Hastur paused. "And?"

"I have to go and help her break 66 Seals to bring about the Apocalypse," Alastair admitted. "And you would have heard about the plan if you were not so busy on Earth scheming a way to inflict pain on him…" Alastair gestured at Crowley, "…for killing your BFF. Although it was more like if I knocked off one of those 'F's."

Hastur was about to defend himself against such a statement but Crowley spoke up first.

"The Apocalypse? That's impossible!" Crowley didn't take the news well. "I already stopped it! With him, I -"

"Ah… yes. The infamous Apocalypse that wasn't," Alastair rolled his eyes. "That was in Britain. It's America's turn. The failed Apocalypse would have worked too if it weren't for you and your poofy angel." Alastair said this in a 'And-I Would-Have-Gotten-Away-With-It-Too-If-It-Weren't-For-You-Meddling-Kids' tone of voice.

Crowley's stomach (he was surprised it was still intact) twisted at the mention of Aziraphale. He dearly hoped that Aziraphale didn't notice or wasn't worrying over his disappearance, though they were supposed to rendezvous at St. James Park. If it was even possible Crowley now felt even worse and guiltier, since at the sound of Alastair's Scooby Doo tone of voice he very well did imagine Aziraphale with puppy dog eyes. He made a mental note to think of that image (or anything else) to take his mind off the torture.

"Not impossible then." Crowley racked his mind for a better word then unbidden the word came from his lips. "Ineffable…"

"Ligur wossn't my BFF." Hastur muttered, but he was ignored and Alastair talked on.

"You had such promise. Such potential. You created Original Sin!" Alastair tsked. "But then the Arrangement came. All very well you took that bullet for us since everyone else was unwilling. For Satan's sake the Arrangement requires the agent of Hell to be partnered with the agent of Heaven for as long as the Earth exists! Who can possibly stand to be with an angel for so long? One of His most boring creations. They listen to Liszt. Can't believe I was one for so long."

'I could stand to be with an angel,' thought Crowley, 'and I did.'

"Then you got native."

Alastair's voice grew colder and darker as murderous and sadistic rage filled his features. If he could, Crowley would have run away as fast as possible, and if that was not fast enough he would have slithered away. He was unfortunately chained to a Devil's Trap by meat hooks. He had little chance of escape.

"A couple of millennia passed and I wanted to see what the fuss was about over His new creations… I came to Earth and guess what happened?"

Crowley knew very well how this story ended.

Hastur didn't, however.

"Whut?" He wondered.

"Downstairs gave Crawly a commendation for my work! The Spanish Inquisition was my idea and I planned everything out. Teaching humans in the art of Torture! The Thumbscrew. The Rack. The Iron Maiden," Alastair spat. "I just happened to get bored and went back to Hell but then Crowley was in the area."

"So the bastard took credit for your work." Hastur grumbled. "Ain't that enough reason to torture him?"

"Well, I would have received the credit had I stayed, however…" Alastair paused. "Humans die so easily and quickly; they're not nearly as fun as souls who never stop screaming. Watching people garrote and burn are only entertaining for so long."

"Gavotte?" Hastur questioned. "You watched people dance?"

"Garrote. Not Gavotte," Alastair corrected. "Teaching humans in the art of Torture… As if I'd ever do that again. But there is an exception."

Alastair placed his fingers to his lips and in a few moments a hellhound came bounding along at the sound of the whistle, dragging a bloodied human soul along with it.

Crowley glanced at the body curiously. It was a male human with brown hair made darker by the blood that had dried and caked on it. Dean's body was covered with marks that appeared to have been made by various means of torture. His clothes too were torn and bloodied as the person they covered.

"I wouldn't let you torture Crawly by yourself, Hastur." Alastair snickered. "You're not very good. Besides, a human would do a better job. They have imagination."

"And electricity," Crowley added unhappily.

"Hastur, Crawly." Alastair gestured at the figure held in the hellhound's jaws. "Meet my protégé, Dean Winchester." He walked up to and then kicked the figure harder than was necessary. The empty eyes of an agonized and broken man opened.

"Dean. I have another soul for you to torture," Alastair said, with fake sweetness in his voice.

"Aren't I kind?" Alastair grinned wickedly. "I know you'd rather torture me instead of all those souls. But I have a replacement."

Dean did not deny Alastair's statement. However he was still not entirely broken.

"You son of a bitch!" Dean snarled. "If I had a bottle of holy water…"

Hastur cringed at the name of the weapon that had killed Ligur, then he snapped and barked at the Dean. "Shut up ya insolent human!"

Then he glared at Crowley. All of them buggers were the same. Really Cool People who were really not cool at all. All that wasted bravado.

Alastair laughed. "Why don't you ask Crowley? I hear he has holy water."

Crowley sighed guiltily. "Used to."

He pointed at Crowley. "That is your assignment. He's a demon, not like other souls and more difficult to torture. Consider it a test."

Alastair smiled dangerously. "I'll even reward you. If you do a good job I'll let you see your brother again."

Crowley felt sick. This was exactly like one of his tactics. Tempting. Offering something wanted in order to get a human to sin. It was never worth it in the end because the price was always too great. Even worse was that Crowley knew the human would accept the challenge. Although he did not know how much the brother meant to that man, it must have been something because a little life returned to his eyes.

'Shit.' Dean thought. 'What is this? First he's like torture or be tortured; now this? What the hell. Even Hell has good cop bad cop. But I do want to be able to see Sammy again...'

Alastair continued. "Don't you want to feel like a Hunter again?"

There was no need to continue.

"Get me the tools," Dean stood up shakily.

Crowley was actually a little relieved. This Dean person was surely less skilled in torture than Alastair was since the greater demon had millennia of practice. There was still something unnerving in the dead eyes that had suddenly gained resolve though.

"All right buster. I don't know what you did for Hell to be torturing one of there own but-" Dean remembered something. Ruby. Hell had tortured her too, didn't they? But she had done something right, helped the Winchester brothers out. Whatever this demon had done was probably something that annoyed Hell, and anything that annoyed Hell was bound to be good. That was why he was going to be punished. Dean gulped and tried not to think too much about it. 'A demon is a demon.'

"I'm going to have to torture you," Dean said dumbly.

"I figured that much already," Crowley responded.

"Hastur, do me a favor and keenly observe Dean's progress won't you? You're free to give a few pointers now and then. Dean? Have fun," Alastair said darkly. "I know I always do."

With that Alastair disappeared to attend to Lilith.

Hastur grinned evilly. This was going to be fun.

The hellhound that had dragged Dean in came back with a cart full of various torture devices.

Then Dean got to work.

* * *

Author's Notes: To be continued! Feedback is wanted. Does this crossover work or I'm just stretching things? I know I already wrote a Good Omens Supernatural crossover fiction but this one has a different storyline and has multiple chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Supernatural belongs to Erik Kripke.

Chapters are beta'd by Craic agus Ceol, any mistakes are of my accord or advice ignored.

* * *

Aziraphale was well into the third hour of waiting. The stereotype was that all angels were the patient and loving type. Like many stereotypes, this was not true.

He didn't have the patience for the occasional human that wandered into his book store, especially those with the audacity to even attempt to purchase a book. Even worse were those that crinkled the pages or created dog ears just to mark their place. Aziraphale just calmly reminded the loiterers that his establishment was a book shop, not a library, and if they were looking for a library they should go visit one run by a nice orange monkey.

Luckily he was able to miracle the books back into proper condition, but still he would always know.

Unfortunately the thought of his friend of six millennia brought a sharp stab of pain through his vessel's heart, and it sure wasn't the excess of buttery jam-covered scones he had that morning.

So maybe Aziraphale was a little plump, but one of the forms of exercise he had was taking long strolls along St. James Park with Crowley. Sometimes they were just feeding the ducks or had meaningful or simply random conversations about ineffability, life or the weather.

Speaking of meaningful conversations, Aziraphale couldn't remember the time he'd had one with Crowley. It could have been a week or mere days or the last time they got drunk and blabbed on about everything until they purged the alcohol out of their systems and opted not to remember anything.

Suddenly Aziraphale was very angry and upset.

This wasn't right.

Crowley wasn't supposed to be late. They were supposed to meet at the park as usual. They were supposed to feed the ducks. They were supposed to talk about ineffability and they were supposed to have a meaningful conversation, bugger it all!

Instead Aziraphale found himself alone, seated upon a worn old park bench, halfheartedly throwing bread at any creature daring to come near him. It seemed even they sensed he needed comfort and they drew close anyway. Until they all fled in a frenzy of activity as a sudden presence appeared near the angel, that is.

"Hello, Aziraphale."

What Aziraphale thought was 'Bugger!' but in an attempt to resume his streak of not swearing what came out was, "Dung beetle!"

Hadn't he already sent that other Tax Office investigator away? Unfortunately he had done his accounts so scrupulously exact that the Tax Office was convinced that he must be getting away with murder somewhere and as a result had sent investigators after him multiple times.

'How long had this one been trying to track me down?' Aziraphale wondered, staring at the dark brown haired man dressed in a beige trench coat. But then it occurred to him that the man had called him Aziraphale, not Mr. Fell.

"My name," The man paused. "Surely you remember?"

Aziraphale glared at the mysterious man's dark blue eyes, which contrasted with his own pale blue ones.

"Your name is Shirley, my dear boy? I certainly don't know any Shirleys," Aziraphale admitted. "But I do know a Crowley." He muttered to himself in a quieter voice, despondently.

"My name is not Shirley, it is Castiel."

"The angel of Thursday?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thank the Above. I feared you were a tax accountant sent by the Tax Office to investigate… again."

Castiel frowned. "I believe my occupation is that of a warrior of God."

"Er. Yes, I do believe so. Pardon me, but… why are you here?"

"You are to do other work, seeing as how your current contract is nullified. There can be no Arrangement without the 'other'."

Aziraphale turned as pale as his light blond hair. He wondered if it was possible to choke on oxygen.

"P-Pardon?"

"This Crowley, whose name you said earlier, he is simply going to be punished for the murder of one of his own. His own people have decided it. "

"But-"

Castiel grimaced, "It is not safe to speak here. We would have to go elsewhere so I can explain to you your next assignment and your partner's… predicament."

'Predicament?' Aziraphale thought. 'More like Perdition…' The guilt started to kick in and Aziraphale felt bad about being angry at Crowley for not showing up. Of course he had to have a reason for being late, and burning in the depths of Hell was a perfectly good reason.

Nevertheless he followed Castiel for a safer place to talk.

* * *

Hastur watched with interest. He actually had no idea what Dean was going to do next to outdo himself. The last scenario had involved half a dozen extension cords, two microwaves, one toaster, eight magnets and three V.35 connector cables. Even then Dean had still not run out of imagination.

Hastur even vaguely wished for a better imagination, and this was coming from a guy who's most vibrant use of imagination involved mixing yellow and blue and claiming it made an entirely new color called blellow. He couldn't even imagine what infrablack looked like, so he tried to once and he ended up having to find and fill out the proper documents for a new vessel.

He had to do go the Demonic Vessel Licensing Agency and it wasn't pretty. The place was always packed. It was filled with demons, particularly young imps who had demolished their vessels in some asinine way. A very popular 'hip' thing among the imps recently was to spontaneously combust in front of humans. They mostly made sure the humans were a few or isolated anyway so no one would believe their story. One moment there is a relatively normal looking person (unless you saw their pitch black eyes) the next there's a pile of ashes and a lone uncharred foot or hand.

To Hastur, the Demonic Vessel Licensing Agency was the most hellish part of Hell. It was even worse that Crowley had though up the idea and even received a commendation for it.

It was a perfect plot. Long lines, bad service, incompetence and general snarkiness (mostly from the female demons who were sadly underpaid and often bothered by male demons) made the place unbearable. The long waiting and incorrect filing out of documents that resulted in more waiting resulted in ill will from everyone and it spread as fine as strawberry jam on a piece of crispy toast. Feigning sickness was in fact a semi effective way to get away from the place.

Hastur broke out of his trance of bad memories at the sound of Crowley's unintelligible jabbering.

"Is that all you have, Winchester?" he sneered. Crowley continued his façade but in reality he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. Still he allowed his mind to wander off from the pain. He simply thought about the meaningful conversations he's had with Aziraphale or even any times they mindlessly bantered about the weather.

"_Looks like it's going to rain."_

"_Just like it did for the first time all those years ago. I still remember, you sly serpent. Went down like a lead balloon?" _

"_We did. But do you ever wonder why it rains, Aziraphale?"_

"_Maybe God is just sad. Sad about the world, ineffability, everything."_

"_Or maybe someone Upstairs just wanted to piss."_

"_Crowley!"_

"_I'm just kidding." _

"Hey, can you think of anything worse?" Dean challenged glowering at Crowley.

"Listening to nothing but Elgar for all eternity?"

"Whoa. That'd be horrificable," commented Hastur, trying to demonstrate his brilliant imagination by creating combinations of words for no apparent reason. Just earlier he had commented that Dean was 'awesomelicious' and 'talentable' after the Winchester had voluntarily carved Crowley's entrails out. Although Crowley tried to refrain from screaming, swearing, or spitting he did a combination of all three sometimes. This happened when Dean had covered a pair of pliers in salt and then proceeded to pluck out the scales at Crowley's feet, exposing the tender skin underneath. Dean made a few jokes about 'soles' and 'souls', which Crowley suspected was a means of cheering himself up despite the obviously immoral things he was doing. But Crowley was a demon and in Dean's eyes he deserved it.

Eyes.

Dean had seen Crowley's eyes after Hastur suggested that Dean took them off.

"Aw. He dunt need sunglasses anyway," The Duke of Hell declared.

Dean had taken the sunglasses off and in sudden shock he dropped them uselessly to the floor.

Crowley's reaction was not helping in anyway to lessen Dean's fear or anger. He had hissed furiously, his tongue lashing out and his eyes dilating in the process. His tongue was partially destroyed and Crowley was already angry enough about the fact that he was sure he wouldn't have the taste buds to be able to enjoy wine or dine with Aziraphale at the Ritz, but now the human had taken off his sunglasses? No one messed with his sunglasses, except Aziraphale, but Aziraphale messed with him a lot so that was different.

Dean backed away. Yellow eyes. Sure, they weren't the same with the slitted pupils, but they were still yellow. 'A yellow eyed demon.' Dean snorted in disbelief, took a deep breath, then charged forward fist first and then successfully gave Crowley a black eye.

"Yellow eyed demon," the older Winchester said, and then this was followed by a string of curses nearly as terrible as the torture.

Hastur really did have to admit Dean had imagination after that.

* * *

A/N: TBC


End file.
